Amber Façades
by StriderX
Summary: Helpless. Hopeless. Lost. Spock evolves, Bones understands, and Jim releases. Kirk-centric: Jim fights with the guilt of lost crewman, his closest friends help. T for tragedy and D-word. NO Slash.
1. Evolution

**A/N:** I've been watching the Original Series from start to finish lately. Part of me finds it amazing how many times intense, long-running emotions are simply buried under a joke or the famous 'end credits'. Very rarely are they actually addressed. It's a shame, I think. Thank you for the interest. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** Claim to own, I do not.

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**Amber ****Façades  
Chapter 1- Evolution  
****By: StriderX**

Helpless. _To be deprived of strength or power; powerless; incapacitated._ Hopeless. _Without hope; despairing; unable to perform as desired._ Lost. _Preoccupied; distraught; desperate; ruined._

Spock knew the definitions well from his study of human emotion. He knew them from mind. He was able to recite them with the all ease of a computer dictionary. They were simple, _logical_, words used to describe complicated, _illogical_, emotions.

He understood the words, he knew their meaning, but the _feeling_ of them simply escaped him. In all his years, he imagined he'd…_felt_ inklings (tiny, miniscule hairs) of such things in the very depth of his recessed human half, but never enough to _understand _what they can do to a man.

But yet, he _sees_ it so clearly every time a crewman dies: the flashes of _anguish_ staining his Captain's face. They last only seconds, sometimes not even that long, but Spock takes each opportunity to study the deep lines along Jim's face, the colorlessness in his eyes. He sees the heavy hitch of the younger mans' breath; just barely catches the tremble in his limbs.

Even as a Vulcan, there is something quite akin to sympathy that builds in his mind each time he spots the man he calls his _friend_ leaning against a wall rubbing his eyes with weary, shaking hands.

_James Tiberius Kirk_. _Captain of the USS Enterprise, Guardian of over 400 lives every second of every day. Strong. Wise. __**Logical**_…..and yet…here, as another unnamed crewman falls to an unimportant alien threat: _Helpless. Hopeless. Lost._

Few see it among the crew. As he should, Jim keeps a good front for most. For them, he is _perfect, infallible_.

When he, Spock and the remainder of the landing party beamed aboard, the lieutenant at the transport controls noted their weary expressions and dirtied clothes but _saw_ nothing _but_ his stalwart commanding officers and the best Captain he'd ever known.

Spock knew better. As Jim quietly gave the orders his men expected (_Good work down there, ensign. Thank you, Lieutenant...the transporter feels a little bumpy. Check it over, would you? Landing party, you're all to report to sick bay then to rest._) Spock stood loyally at his side. When the men departed, the two commanding officers stepped into the empty deck hall. It was quiet and the lighting dim; the solar-simulated night made space life easier for earthlings, Spock learned.

He also learned that in such a light the deepest of human emotions tend to surface like a spot of oil in a pool of water.

From his position just behind the Captain, he noticed the significant _slump_ in Jim's shoulders and the weak clenched-and-unclenched fists hanging at his sides. From previous study, Spock identified this as _confliction_—one of the more _destructive_ of inner human emotions.

It was pure _logic_ that moved Spock to speak to Jim on the matter. _Logic_, of course, to do whatever was necessary to see the commanding officer of the ship back in efficient working order. It was that and nothing more that had Spock gently coaxing the Captain out of his dark reverie.

"Jim, there was nothing that could have been done to save Ensign Reeves or Lieutenant Borcov. You should not blame yourself for their actions," to anyone else, Spock's monotone would have been _cold_ and _uncaring_, but Jim knew better.

He lifted his head and stared his first officer dead in the eye (in more respects then one) and repeated the well-practice line that had burrowed its way into his heart. "They were my responsibility. They died under _my_ command and I can do nothing for it," Spock caught the _guilt_ and _sorrow_ seeping through as rage in Jim's strained voice. "If you'll report to the bridge after you clean up, Mr. Spock, I'll be in my quarters."

Just as Jim moved to bolt down the hall (as quickly as a sprained leg would allow) Spock reached out in pure instinct to grasp the Captain's arm. Jim stopped, but didn't turn to meet his eyes when Spock's hold loosened. Spock understood why. For as much emotion that ran through Jim's veins, he did a great deal to hide it. (Often Spock found himself somewhat…_confused_ at the oddity of Jim's behavior. At times, the human seemed just as ashamed of his emotions as Spock was his human genes.)

"If I may suggest, Captain," Spock ventured, softly. "At such times, the most adequate remedy for your species has seemed to be sharing an alcoholic beverage with a close companion."

Jim turned then. His eyes were red around the edges. There was a slight amusement just on the surface of his features, almost pulling his lips to a smirk. (Much like, Spock surmised, the calm surface of a sea when there is a tempest of currents exploding beneath.) "_You_ want to share a drink, Spock?"

Without thinking, Spock's right eyebrow lifted. What the Captain suggested was not at _all_ what he was referring to. "Vulcans do not indulge in alcohol, Captain," to this Jim nodded slightly. "But Doctor McCoy, I believe, is quite fond of Saurian brandy."

There was an expression hovering on Jim's face that Spock could only link to _acquiescence_—a rare trait not seen by many but Jim's closest friends. The Captain nodded a little; there was a flash of light in his eyes. "Quite right, Mr. Spock. I'll be in sickbay."

Finding the conversation's outcome quite _suitable_, Spock's brow lifted and head bowed as he characteristically clasped his hands behind his back. "Very well, Captain."

Watching Jim make his way down the hall, Spock pondered on how his notion of _logic_ had evolved since his serving under _this_ Captain. Indeed, he decided, sometimes a _logical_ end could only be achieved through _illogical_ means.

**To be concluded...**


	2. Understanding

**A/N:** The conclusion. Haven't had any reviews yet, but hopefully someone enjoys this. Thanks for reading.

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**Amber Façades  
Chapter 2- Understanding  
By: StriderX**

The light in sickbay, like the majority of the ship, was dimmer then typical. This alone made it a relished night for Doctor McCoy. Dim lights were a rare treat only experienced when the sickbay was empty and business slow. (The landing party's visit was quick and miniscule; no major injures…physically.)

Grabbing a familiar bottle from the frosted-glass cabinet, Bones sighed with a small grin lifting his gruff features. It seemed, to him, that less and less these days he had opportunity for such a quiet drink. Between the constant threat of Klingon attack and the never-ending alert for alien dangers, McCoy had noticed more than one grey hair and wrinkle age him beyond what he was. He'd seen what old age was like with that nonsense on Gamma Hydra IV…as far as he could help it, McCoy wanted _nothing_ to do with it for a long, long time.

And thus, as he poured a generous glass of the rich amber liquid, he was convinced of nothing more than that maybe, just _maybe _this drink could let him feel his youth again…even if only for the hour. If there was an emergency, _someone else_ could deal with it, he thought. If there was a _real_ emergency, well…over years of intense practice McCoy had developed quite a skill for instant 'sobering up'.

When he finally settled in his chair and swirled the drink fondly in the glass (the room around him strangely devoid of life), he almost expected the _swish_ of the sickbay door. He didn't look up from his glass, he didn't have to. Jim's reflection was as clear as a rain cloud through the brandy's surface.

"Got another glass?" his voice was soft, restrained, McCoy noted mentally.

In typical fashion, McCoy snorted a silent smile and nodded to the chair on the other side of the desk. There was already a fresh glass waiting by the brandy bottle (McCoy always brought out two glasses. _Just in case_).

Jim sat with a heavy, tired sigh and poured a full cup (he did everything in his power to hide the slight trembling in his hands).

McCoy watched his _Captain_ slowly melt away into his _friend_ as the first long gulp burned down Jim's throat. Suddenly, the younger man's guard was down and all the wear showed through. McCoy's head shook. Jim wasn't a rain cloud, he was a_ damn_ tornado.

Weary, heavy minutes trickled by. Two glasses a-piece were causing pleasant buzzing in their ears. McCoy looked to Jim with a frown. The boy's eyes were _red_. Underneath the watery glass and thick line of long lashes, McCoy _felt_ the rich chestnut iris's fade to a duller, darker brown.

Jim hadn't moved in over a minute. Those eyes didn't blink; his chest never rose to take a breath. With jaw set in stone, Jim simply stared into the void of his glass, almost _begging_ for release.

The _Bones_ in McCoy couldn't take the silence anymore. He _knew_ this part of Jim…and how _dangerous_ it could be. "Do you remember Relgard 7, Jim?" the slow Georgian voice coaxed no response, but McCoy _knew_ he was listening. "One of our first missions together. Boy, what'ta mess that was…" lost in his own memory, McCoy twirled his glass absently and shook his head. "Barcov's mother was there; don't know if you knew that."

A muscle in Jim's neck seemed to flinch, the grip on his glass tighter—the broken skin of his knuckles turning white under dried blood.

"I was next to her when they shot her. Two feet away and there was nothing I could do but hold her as she died."

If there'd been any caring consciousness to Jim's mind, he'd have realized his vision had suddenly become too blurry to see.

McCoy watched him carefully. "I never said it, but I always blamed myself for her death," he paused not just to judge Jim, but also to catch his own feelings. "Until I received something…a memo from her husband."

Reaching into a small drawer beneath his desk as he spoke, McCoy pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, a Starfleet personal transmission typed on it. He placed it in Jim's line of sight but the man's eyes didn't adjust to read it.

"'To Doctor McCoy, USS _Enterprise_,'" McCoy recited the letter from memory. "'I wish to thank you for being by my beloved wife's side in her last moments. I do not blame you, nor would she. Please do not blame yourself. In her stead, I personally relieve you from your deepest misplaced guilt. My family will always remember you fondly, truly, Miersk Barcov.'"

Jim's expression had not changed. Quietly, McCoy pulled another paper (this one dirtied but folded neatly) from the drawer. "Apparently such feelings run in the family. Lieutenant Barcov gave this to me to keep safe for him just before I beamed up," he placed the folded paper next to Jim's glass, just millimeter's from his hands' touch. "_Read it_, Jim."

Almost lifelessly, Jim moved to open the handwritten note and blinked to clear his eyes of the _blur_. _'Captain Kirk,_' it read (Jim could hear the boy's heavy Czech accent). '_if you're reading this, then Dr. McCoy has surely kept his word. I've died today by some very unfortunate means, I'm sure, but Captain, I __**do not**__ blame you for this. It has been my honor and great pleasure to serve under you and I would never change anything for the world. __**Thank you**__ for making my life what it was. My only wish at this, my moment of life's departure, is that you release yourself from this terrible guilt I'm sure you're feeling. Do this, and my soul will rest in a very happy peace. Forever truly, Charid Barcov.'_

Jim's eyes were completely blind to him by the last word. He _felt_ the hot sting tracing down his cheeks; _choked_ on the boulder pressing in upon his chest.

_Bones_ watched this with unusual care in his eyes. Moving as a friend, he reached over the table and grasped Jim's wrist tightly. Jim was staring blankly at the paper, features fighting against every urge to scream. "Whatever _our_ feelings might be, Jim, _they're_ right. It's not our fault. It's not _your_ fault."

"He shouldn't have died…" Jim's voice gasped in a whisper. "None of them should…they're…_my_…responsibility.."

McCoy felt rage at his Captain's stubborn self-destructiveness, but _Bones_ sighed empathetically. "And that girl. Yeoman Cawl. Who died of Airicon fever two days ago? She was _my_ responsibility, Jim."

Hazy and dull, Jim's eyes snapped up to meet McCoy's gaze. The doctor was steady and unwavering, but Jim saw the same _emotion_ run in his veins that ran through his _own_.

The silence was denser then lead for some time until McCoy picked up the brandy bottle and topped off each glass. Jim hadn't bothered to wipe away the tears staining his _perfect_ façade. (McCoy imagined the stinging stream was _comforting_ to the boy just then.) Tiredly, with an agonizing sorrow about his movements, Jim lifted his glass to toast simply: "To _responsibility_."

McCoy's head jerked in a nod. With raised brow he watched Jim down his glass like water. _Jim_, his impeccable Captain. _Jim, _his most difficult patient. _Jim, _his closest friend. He watched him for a moment until turning and downing his own burning relief. _Yes_, the thought hung in the air, _responsibility. If space doesn't eat us alive, __**it**__ surely will._

In time, Jim cleared his face with a sleeve and straightened his shirt. _Bones_ saw the darkness still lingering, but the presence of a _Captain_ now enveloped the younger man. Placing the emptied glass on the desk, Jim stood with a slight nod and small trademark smirk. "Thanks, Bones," was all he said before turning—back straight and aura strong—and sliding through the door, destination bound solely for the bridge.

McCoy's head shook. The _doctor_ in him knew he should've stopped him, should've forced him to undergo a psych eval; to get some food; to take at least twelve-hours rest. The _Bones_ in him knew the only thing that would cure his _friend_ was to move on and _forget_. At the end, he could only smile when that familiar voice piped cheerily over the comm: "_This is the Captain speaking. We've received a distress call from the USS Destiny, all hands prepare for battle. Yellow alert. Repeat, this is not a drill. Yellow alert."_

**End.**


End file.
